The Player's Club: Scott (2 page)

“Of course I do,” she said. “You’re Scott Ferrell. Apartment 3D.”

“Uh…well, yes,” he admitted, momentarily nonplussed.

“We met once, when I moved in,” she said. “About six months ago. I bumped into you and your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Scott said automatically, then sighed. That response was getting to be knee-jerk. “That is, she’s not anymore. I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

“Amanda,” she replied, putting down her weapon and holding out her hand. “Amanda Wheeler. Nice to meet you. Again.”

He shook her hand, finally laughing. “This has got to be one of the weirdest introductions…”

“
Re
introduction,” she interrupted, with that quicksilver grin.

“Sorry, yes,
re
introductions, I’ve ever had.” She was cute, in a girl-next-door kind of way. Which was funny, considering she technically was the girl next door, in a manner of speaking. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then glanced out the window. “I’m telling you, there really was something weird going on across the street.”

“I believe you,” she said, and thankfully it sounded as though she did. “Were you just planning on hanging out on the fire escape until the strange men came back?”

Scott rubbed his jaw. “Honestly, my thinking hadn’t gone quite that far.”

“I’ll bet, or you would’ve grabbed a jacket.”

He crossed his arms in front of him, then grinned when she giggled again.

“Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?” She winked at him. “Hot cocoa?”

Definitely cute. “At the risk of ruining my masculine reputation even further, I’ll take the hot chocolate.”

“You can even have marshmallows,” she said. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, he surveyed his surroundings. The light from the kitchen splashed out into the living room, revealing large windows—including the one he’d climbed into—and hardwood floors. The couch looked very comfortable, and the flat-screen television looked large, surrounded by piles of DVDs. There were also a multitude of books stacked haphazardly in built-in cherry bookshelves. The living room was cozy, comfortable and inviting.

Much like its owner.

After several minutes, Amanda returned with two mugs…and a robe, belted primly at the waist, much to his disappointment. He felt his own bare-chested state keenly. He took the mug, taking a sip gingerly so he wouldn’t burn his tongue. “This is fantastic,” he said.

She smiled. “The trick is to make it on the stovetop,” she said. “Microwave just isn’t the same. So, have the guys come back?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” Scott said, deflated. He took another sip, savoring the rich, creamy, chocolate concoction. “What else is in this?”

“Nutmeg,” she replied, with a slight shrug. “It’s my own blend. I used to own a chocolate shop. Just sold it recently, actually.”

He happened to be glancing out the window as she made her statement. “Look! There they are!”

The two of them huddled by the window, peering out. Like a colony of army ants, men streamed out of the alleyway, making the buzzing noise of people trying to be quiet and failing miserably. There were several loudly whispered mutters of “shh” and “shut up!” heard, and laughter, as the crowd dispersed and went their separate ways.

“It’s almost four,” Amanda said. “What
are
they doing?”

“I have no idea,” Scott said, watching as a limo drove by and picked up several of the group. “Now do you see why I was out on the fire escape?”

She laughed, and it warmed him more than the hot chocolate. “I wasn’t really complaining that you were out there,” she replied, looking down at her mug. Then she looked back at him, smiling shyly.

He stared at her. Was that a come-on? After all, here he was, in her living room, in the middle of the night. In just sweatpants. And she was just wearing a T-shirt and a robe, from the looks of it. It could definitely be an invitation.

Of course, he had just invaded her place on the strangest of rationales. She could just be what she looked like: a sweet kid who was being neighborly.

He shook his head, handing her mug back. “I owe you,” he said. “Thanks for the cocoa. And for not calling the cops. Although next time…”

“I’ll be dialing them from the bathroom,” she said. “Still, I don’t think I could convince myself that you were a burglar. You’re too…”

“Too what?” he prompted, but didn’t need her to answer. He got a feeling he knew the answer.

Nice.
She was going to say “nice.”

He paused, his ex-girlfriend’s words echoing in his head as if she’d just said them that night, and not three months ago.

Scott, I can’t possibly be in a relationship with you.

You’re too nice. You’re too sweet.

You’re boring.

“Telling me to protect myself was really…sweet,” she stammered. “You just don’t seem like the burglar/rapist type. I watch enough
Criminal Minds
to know.”

“Thanks,” he said, then started to go out the window.

“You know, you can use the door.”

“Oh. Right,” he said, feeling like a complete idiot. He followed her to the door, stepping out into the hallway.

For a second, standing there propped against the door, she looked like less of a kid, and more of a woman, her leg peeking out from the split in her robe, her hair tousled and wild, her eyes low-lidded.

You should ask her out.

He waited.

Logic prevailed. The moment passed.

“Thanks, again,” he repeated. He turned and walked away.

He just wanted to find out what the deal was with the guys in the alleyway. He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. He wasn’t even looking for someone to date. He certainly wasn’t interested in a girl-next-door type, especially one who lived in the apartment above him.

And most definitely not one who thought he was “sweet.”

THE NEXT MORNING, AMANDA stood in the candy shop.
Her
candy shop. It was closed for business, although she could hear some workers starting their day, back in the kitchen.

The keys in her pocket felt as if they were made out of lead. She tried to ignore the sensation, studying instead the artistic displays of truffles and bonbons behind the gleaming glass cases. Out of habit, she adjusted a rack of dark chocolate candy bars.

A tall blond man stepped out from the back room, grinning softly at her. “You can take the girl out of the candy shop…”

“…but you can’t take the candy shop out of the girl,” she finished ruefully, tucking her hands in her pockets—and abruptly hitting her knuckles on the key ring. “Sorry, Ethan. Guess I was just getting it out of my system.”

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets also. His normally placid face was etched with concern. “Are you sure you can walk away?”

She nodded a little more forcefully than necessary, pulling the keys out of her pocket and putting them in his palm. “Positive. Besides, I know that you love it as much as I do. Maybe more.”

He chuckled weakly. “I have missed it these past two years.”

She forced a laugh, too, wondering if that was a tiny jab at her. When they’d divorced, she’d forgone spousal support in exchange for full ownership of the CandyLove store. At the time, she thought it was because she was the one who had started it, a full two years before they’d gotten married. Now she realized it was to prove something. She’d kept it going, made it even more successful. Worked eighty-hour weeks to ensure that success.

She subsequently questioned who she was proving it to, but at least now she felt like the point had been made.

“So,” Ethan said, jingling the keys in his palm, “what are you going to do now, with all your free time?”

“Sleep,” she breathed, and his laugh sounded more natural. “After that, I don’t know. Go on vacation. Do something exciting… What?”

She frowned as his smirk grew. “You’ll probably read books and watch TV for six months,” he prophesized. “Then you’ll start another business. For as long as I’ve known you, Mandy, you’ve only got two speeds—workaholic or hibernation.”

She bit her lip, irritated both at his observation and the probable truth behind it. “Maybe I’ll have an affair,” she mused.

“You know, that might be good for you,” he agreed without rancor. Probably because he thought there was no chance in hell of it happening. He was probably right about that, too. “You need some passion in your life.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll hook up with some leather-wearing Harley biker,” she joked. “Maybe ride across the country.”

“Start hustling pool,” Ethan added.

“Wear micromini spandex and do body-shots off of six-pack ab underwear models named Gunther,” she said, mocking herself. “Really. The possibilities are endless.”

“Well, if you put your mind to it, I’m sure you’ll get it,” Ethan said fondly. “Whatever else, Mandy, you’re the most determined woman I know. I hope you get that adventure.”

“Goodbye, and good luck,” she said, giving him a hug tinged with mourning. Not for the relationship—she’d grieved herself out on that years ago—but for the finality. And for his comments.

What
was
she going to do with herself?

She smiled, a little crookedly. Then she hugged him goodbye and walked out the door, feeling oddly empty and colder than the sunny morning warranted.

“I’m late, aren’t I?”

Amanda turned to find her best friend, Jackie, business-jogging up to her, her hair in disarray, her purse hanging haphazardly from her shoulder. Amanda smiled weakly. “I gave up the keys to CandyLove,” she said.

Jackie enveloped her in a huge hug. “Come on. Let’s get drunk.”

“It’s eight in the morning,” Amanda pointed out.

“Bloody Mary breakfast, then,” Jackie said, tugging her along. “And don’t tell me no.”

“Like I could,” Amanda muttered, feeling a bit better already. They headed for North Beach, hitting Caffè DeLucchi. Amanda had the smoked salmon Benedict and the requisite Bloody Mary, while Jackie ordered her usual, chocolate-chip pancakes with fresh vanilla whipped cream.

“You eat like a kid,” Amanda said.

“This from a woman who used to own a candy store. Besides, you live like an old lady,” Jackie said, sticking out her tongue. “Food choices are emblematic of lifestyle. You envy my pancakes. Admit it. You
crave
my pancakes.”

It was close enough to Ethan’s observation—
you only have two speeds
—that she winced.

“You know,” Amanda said, “I do sort of envy your pancakes.”

Jackie noticed the change in tone and focused in. “What’s wrong,
chica?
” Her expression turned murderous. “It’s not that tool ex-husband of yours, is it?”

“Ethan is
not
a tool,” Amanda defended quickly.

Jackie rolled her eyes. “You are the only woman I know who is still friends with the husband who cheated on her.”

“He didn’t cheat on me. He just fell in love with Jillian, and we split up so he wouldn’t cheat.” Before she could acknowledge Jackie’s stare of disbelief, she shook her head. “And if I’d really loved him, I would have cared. That was the worst part, you know. Here is this guy, telling me ‘I think I’m in love with somebody else, maybe we shouldn’t be married,’ and my first thought is ‘thank God.’ He dumped me, so I didn’t have to be the bad guy. I’d dodged a bullet.”

Jackie nodded, taking a sip of her drink. “I’ve suspected that. You were sad, but you were also sort of relieved. You just never said so before.”